Swim Until You Can't See Land (11 page)

One of the men left the room, while the other one, the one who’d hit her, dragged over a chair. He took off his belt, slung it over his knee, sat down opposite her, hands folded in his lap.

‘I’m glad we are alone. I don’t enjoy this part of the job. Please, why don’t you speak to me? I can help you.’

He smiled, ran a hand through his Brylcreemed hair.

‘I’ve told you the truth.
Je dis la vérité
. I don’t understand these other things you say, these accusations.’

‘Come now. Please don’t insult my intelligence. I don’t want to see a pretty, young thing like you hurt. Cooperate. I hate this bloodshed as much as you do. I want to help you.’

He leant forward and she pulled back as far as she could go. The fire still blazed and she could see the reflection of the flames flicker in the revolver hanging from his belt.

‘Come now,’ he wiped away the blood that seeped from her lip, licked his finger.

‘I think you have mistaken me for someone else.’

He brushed her hair out of her face. She shivered. What was he doing? What was he going to do to her?

God, she couldn’t bear to think of some of the things they’d warned her about in training.

‘I’ve taken a shine to you, let me help you.’ He stroked her check with his thumb.

This was worse than being hit. She wanted to spit in his face but her mouth was dry. No saliva. God, if he tried to do anything to her. The fire crackled. She was so warm, sweat stuck her thighs together, ran down her back.

‘I am Sabine Valois.’

‘Right, Miss Downie, to start with I’d like to talk about your home life, your family.’

He stopped, looked at her as if she was meant to continue. She expected a question.

‘Well, that’s rather a large subject area. Can you try to be more specific?’

He tapped his pencil, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

‘What exactly do you wish to know?’ She spoke again.

‘Just start at the beginning,’ he replied.

God, he was awful. Worse than the last man. This one didn’t even attempt to deflect her questions, just ignored them. What was she supposed to say to that?

‘Well, I was born in Aberdeen, spent a lot of my childhood in France, one mother, one father, one brother.’

Or at least she did have one brother. She hoped he didn’t want her to speak about George.

‘Brother,’ he flicked through his sheets of paper, ‘George, yes?’

She nodded. It was as if he’d read her mind.

How dare he say George’s name, make it sound so normal, when just the thought of saying it made her throat thicken. She wanted to reclaim it from this God-awful man.

‘I’m sorry to hear about your loss. How does it make you feel?’

How did he think it made her feel?

Awful, so awful, she was underwater, drowning, drowning without him.

‘My family are devastated,’ she replied.

‘How does it make you feel about the war?’

‘I wish it was over, so nobody else has to go through what we have.’

The man stood up and walked towards the desk. He unlocked a drawer, took something out. Chocolate. It was a bar of chocolate. She heard the crack as he snapped a chunk off, popped it in his mouth, chewed. Then another piece. She looked away. He was trying to provoke her, just doing this to tease, get a reaction. Did he think she was stupid? Some stupid little girl he could manipulate.

He laid the bar of chocolate on the desk where she could see it. In full view. She hadn’t eaten properly in three days. Just try and give her a piece, she’d probably throw it right back up again.

He stoked the fire with a poker. God, it was already so hot in here. She couldn’t think properly. How could he stand it in that suit? The chocolate would melt lying out on the desk. What a waste of precious chocolate.

It all happened so quickly. One minute he stoked the fire, the next he had crossed the room in two strides, lifted her skirt and pressed the hot poker against her thigh.

He leant forward, his face pressed to hers.

‘If you don’t talk, it will be worse for you. I abhor violence. I am nothing compared to my colleague.’

Sabine shut her eyes, his warm breath on the side of her face, the sweet tang of chocolate.

‘What was your relationship with your brother like?’

‘Your carriage, m’ladies.’ He turned and she saw he dragged a wooden sledge behind him.

‘The same as most brothers and sisters, I imagine.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘We were very close.’

He looked at her, chewed the end of the pencil.

‘And your relationship with your parents?’

‘The same.’

They sat down where they were, on the floor, facing each other across the hallway. Mama reached towards Marièle and she took her mother’s hands, the telegram lay on the floor between them.

‘Tell me about your holidays in France.’

‘We would visit my grandparents, they lived there until very recently.’

‘Do you miss your grandparents?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Do you indulge in fantasies?’

‘Fantasies?’

‘Yes,’ he nodded, waited for her to go on.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Fantasies, pretence, dreams of a husband, a different life, sexual fantasies.’ He looked down at his notes, as if it was a shopping list he read to her.

Her lips were wet from the snow which had started to fall again, and Marièle felt the kiss burn against her cold skin.

‘No, no I don’t.’

Where had the men gone? Were they coming back? God, how much more could she take of this?

Her wrists and shoulders ached. She longed to swing them free, let her arms hang loose at her sides. The sweat stung at her wounds. She needed a drink, water, she needed water. She’d drink some, then pour the rest of it down her leg, cool the burning.

God, they were pigs, pigs to do that to her. How could they act like that?

She made herself look at the portrait of Hitler. It was all because of him.

Down to him that George was dead, that she was here, that those pigs treated her like this. All down to that one man. Use the anger, use the hate. Use it to survive.

She hated him, hated them, all of them.

‘Do you ever feel resentful towards your parents?’

‘What? No, of course not.’

Your mother has a funny voice. Why do you call her mama? I was born here, I’m Scottish. Froggy Marie, Froggy Marie.

‘Do your father and mother have a happy marriage?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you elaborate?’

‘What more is there to say?’

He smiled that annoying smile he had. He didn’t answer questions, he asked them.

‘They have their ups and downs like anyone else, but, yes, they’re happy.’

‘Would leaving your family for a period of time be difficult for you?’

‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’

It would be harder for them than it would for her.

‘Ah, but if you had to go away for longer than a few days? Further than London.’

‘They’d understand if it meant helping the war effort.’

‘What if there was danger involved?’

Danger? What was he asking her to do?

An interview for what?

‘We’re all in danger while the war continues.’

‘Could you put your parents through that? After George.’

Mama reached towards Marièle and she took her mother’s hands, the telegram lay on the floor between them.

‘Am I at risk?’

He ignored her question, scribbled something down in pencil.

‘How do you feel about keeping secrets from your family?’

Marièle felt the kiss burn against her cold skin.

‘If it helps us win the war, I see no problem with it.’

‘Us, what do you mean by us?’

‘The allies of course.’

God, she hoped this would be over soon.

She heard footsteps outside, approaching the office. Were they coming back? What were they going to do to her now?

That other woman, the one who’d been in the cell with her that first day. She told Sabine they’d given her electric shocks. Clipped wires to her bare breasts and shocked her. She urged Sabine to talk, tell them what they wanted to hear. They’re sadists, you’re so young, so pretty, don’t let them hurt you. Just tell them, you can’t imagine what they’ll do to you otherwise. The girl had shown her scars, sobbed as she pleaded with Sabine.

Sabine ignored her. Listened but hadn’t spoken back. She didn’t know whether the girl was for real or a plant put there to trick her. A stool pigeon. They did that sometimes. She was sorry for the girl, but she couldn’t trust anyone, not now she’d been caught. The war had hardened her.

Besides, she didn’t plan on talking. She wouldn’t give anyone away, spill her secrets. She would keep quiet.

No matter what they did.

The footsteps stopped outside the door. She heard the key click in the lock, saw the handle turn, then the door swung open. Why had they locked her in? She was going nowhere. Even if she could get her weary brain to come up with some sort of escape plan, she was too weak to break free of these ropes. God, how had the Germans lasted so long? They were stupid.

The two men were back. One of them carried a silver tray but she couldn’t see what was on it. Something jangled as he placed it on the desk.

‘This is your last chance to talk.’

‘I have nothing to say.’

‘I told you about my colleague, I warned you. Are you sure you won’t tell us the truth?’

The man rummaged in a paper folder, pulled out a pile of cards, held together with string. He untied them, shuffled the cards, laid them on his lap.

‘Now, Miss Downie, I’m going to hold up these cards and I want you to tell me what the image reminds you of.’

Marièle nodded. At last, a break from the intimate questioning.

He held up a card. It had some sort of inky splodge on it. Like when they made butterfly paintings at school. You painted one half of a sheet of paper, then folded it over so the pattern spread. Symmetrical.

‘Spider.’

He held up another card.

‘House.’

Her voice echoed around the room, lonely, a conversation with herself.

‘Flower.’

‘Butterfly.’

‘Beach.’

‘Sun.’

‘Moon.’

‘Horse.’

‘Dog.’

‘Cat.’

‘Ball.’

God, she wasn’t even sure if the cards make her think of these things. Any hesitation made her awkward, ill at ease. She had to keep speaking, quickly, quickly, quickly. Word after word after word after word. Just to keep herself from standing up and shaking him. She wanted to grab the cards out of his hands, throw them up in the air, see how he reacted to that.

He untied her arms. They floated free at her side, she’d lost all feeling in them.

He moved round, sat in the chair facing her. Shook his head, held out his hands, as if to say, I gave you a chance, there’s nothing I can do now. Then he grabbed her wrist, clamped her hand flat against his thigh.

The other man picked up the silver tray, it rattled as he walked towards her. He lifted a pair of pliers. They glinted in the firelight. Her stomach contracted.

Hitler surveyed the room.

Oh God, what were they going to do?

Her breath was quick and heavy, quick and heavy,quickandheavyquickandheavyquickandheavyquickandheavy quickandheavy.

She didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing her cry, but she couldn’t stop the tears.

He slid her thumbnail between the teeth of the pliers, squeezed until she felt them grip, then pulled.

The man tidied the cards into a neat pile, tied the string around them again.

Was that right? Had she answered properly?

‘Okay, Miss Downie, now a word association game.’

Game? Was this a game?

‘I’m going to say a word and I want you to reply with the first thing that comes into your head. Okay?’

‘Yes,’ she nodded.

He laid his papers on his lap, folded his hands and stared at her.

‘Rose.’        ‘Red.’

‘Cat.’        ‘Mat.’

‘Dog.’        ‘Cat.’

‘Tree.’        ‘Leaf.’

‘Horse.’        ‘Door.’

‘Sea.’        ‘Boat.’

‘Shell.’        ‘Sand.’

‘Shoe.’        ‘Stocking.’

‘Apple.’        ‘Pie.’

‘Tram.’        ‘Ticket.’

She tried not to think. Snapped responses back at him.

He stopped firing words. Looked down at his bit of paper, nodded to himself. She wanted to scream. Speak, don’t sit there contemplating.